


Of Couches and Hangovers

by hheroes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: "oh whoops this isn't my best friends couch..." AU, Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:58:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2375447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hheroes/pseuds/hheroes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has done a lot of stupid things in his life--seriously, the list is extensive--but this has to take the fucking cake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Couches and Hangovers

**Author's Note:**

> this was an au prompt on tumblr and for some reason, i thought it applied to sam/steve. (i wasn't wrong.)

Sam has done a lot of stupid things in his life--seriously, the list is extensive--but this has to take the fucking cake.

He wakes up with his cheek stuck to leather and smelling like something he probably vomited last night, while a headache blooms in the base of his skull and spreads like wildfire. It’s also too damn bright for him to do anything, so he just shuts his eyes and shoves his face back into Riley’s couch.

Then his first clear thought of the morning comes: Riley’s couch isn’t leather.

His second clear thought is, “Oh, shit.”

Hoisting himself up is a struggle since his head feels like lead, but he props himself up on his elbows and looks around. The place is nice, quaint, set up perfectly in that this-place-is-occupied-but-not-really-lived-in look, just a few art pieces on the wall and the odd photo or two scattered in between.

It’s a real shock, since Riley’s place looks wreckage from a distance and a disaster zone up close. The place Sam’s in right now looks _dusted_ , and he’s not entirely sure if Riley even knows what a _vacuum_ is.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Sam says out loud. And then he starts scrambling for his pants.

Right; because sleepy, drunk Sam had thought he was crashing on Riley’s couch, so he’d stripped down to his boxers and socks and snuggled down for the night. Sleepy, drunk Sam is also an idiot, and Sam’s never trusting him to anything ever again.

Mere moments after he’s tugged on his jeans, someone clears their throat behind him.

Sam instantly thinks of his options. Option A is to explain that he’s an idiot, sorry about being half-naked, I’ll just go now, and Option B is to do all this while somehow blaming Riley for it. He turns slowly while he’s still trying to make his decision.

The stranger has his arms folded across his chest, bearing a frown that’s not quite upset, mainly just bemused (and faintly humored) but Sam isn’t paying attention to any of that because the guy’s arms are tree trunks disguised in skin, and his chest is hot damn and his face is damn son--

“Um, hi,” Sam says, “how you doin?”

White boys are going to be the _death_ of him.

Stranger gives him a weird look. “Who are you? Why are you on my couch?”

Regaining some semblance of dignity, Sam stutters back to life and jumps to his feet. He instantly regrets the movement as his head pounds to remind him that _hey, you’re an idiot_ , and he winces as he clutches his pants with one hand and holds up the other in the universal, _I’m not looking for a fight right now_ gesture.

“Sorry, man, my best friend lives next door, and I guess all these houses look the same at night when you’re hammered.” He panics for a short moment, and then sticks out his free hand before he can lose the nerve, “I’m Sam. But, uh, you can call me the Idiot that crashes on the wrong couch without even noticing.”

To his surprise (delight?) Stranger accepts the handshake with little more than a raised eyebrow. “I’m Steve. Nice to meet you, Sam,” he says lightly. “I’m really flattered that you liked my couch, but I really hope you find your pal’s place in the future. I just about had a heart attack when I heard my living room snore last night.”

_What kind of man smiles at the stranger who broke into his house to sleep on his couch_ ,  Sam doesn’t think, because looking at Steve is answer enough. God, and his eyes are _blue_ , too. If his head didn’t feel like it was peeling from the inside out, Sam would’ve flirted himself into an early grave.

Instead, he just blinks at Steve. “Um,” he says again, “I’ll try?” Then belatedly, “Wait, man, I might be a lot of things but a _snorer_ is not one of them.” 

Steve smiles. “Whatever you say.”

Sam sees sunshine and rainbows in that smile. That smile is powerful, and no mortal man should have that kind of power--at least not was Sam’s hungover, dammit. “Oh, that’s how it is?”

“That’s how it is,” Steve says, and smile grows wider.

Sam sighs, heavy and from somewhere deep inside himself. Does flirting count if it’s accidental? Was that even flirting? It’s too early for this. “Alright, well, thanks for, uh, not beating my ass into the ground, I guess? I’ll just grab my stuff and get out of your hair.” 

“You sure you can find your out? I’d hate for you to wind up stuck in my coat closet or something,” Steve says with innocent blue eyes.

“Oh, screw you, man,” Sam grumbles and Steve laughs, soft and quick, and it buzzes right down to Sam’s toes. He’s a little hasty to grab his shirt and tie off his belt, and in his rush he almost forgets his shoes (or shoe, because he can only find one and he has a fuzzy memory of losing the other in the bushes outside.) Eventually he’s ready to go, and he all but sprints out Steve’s door.

Steve waves amiably as he leaves. “Oh, wait, Sam! You forgot something!”

And Sam stares blearily in the sunlight Steve runs up to him on his front walk, presses a slip of paper into his hand, and sends him off with another bottled-sunshine smile.

He knows what it is without looking at it. Steve’s number is sitting in his hand, and all Sam can think is that this not-so-stranger is one smooth motherfucker; he never even saw him write it down.

“See you later?” Steve makes it a question, leaving it up to Sam to decide.

Sam thinks there more than enough overwhelming evidence as to why he shouldn’t make a decision in his life ever again, but he nods nonetheless and pockets the number like a coveted treasure. “Next time I need a couch, I’ll aim for yours. That’s a promise.”

It’s not his best line but it makes Steve laugh, which quickly shoots to the top of Sam’s list of accomplishments, and he feels dizzy as he manages to gather up enough dignity to make it to Riley’s place.

Riley laughs at him for like ten minutes. Sam can’t really blame him.

 


End file.
